Being back in her studio with her filled him with emotions he could not begin to comprehend.
How he had loved watching her paint, watching the deep concentration she applied to her art. She would cut out the world from inside her head so all that remained was her and the canvas that became an extension of herself. If he was home, he would bring his laptop to the studio and work while she painted. For the most part she would be oblivious to his presence, but every now and then she would turn her head and bestow him a beaming smile that left him in no doubt how happy she was to have him there with her.
Even before she disappeared he had missed those times, but the running of the casinos and nightclubs had taken him away from home more frequently than he would have liked, especially in the evenings.
‘I like what you’ve done to your hair.’
She stilled and raised her eyes. ‘I thought you would hate it.’
‘Is that why you cut it so short? To spite me?’
‘Partly. Mostly it was to make it harder for you or anyone searching to recognise me. Every time I moved on I would cut a little more off and change the colour.’
‘It’s just as well I found you when I did or you would have ended up looking like a Tibetan monk.’
She laughed, but it sounded forced. ‘Yes. I might have ended up in a proper working monastery. You would never have found me then.’
‘Probably not.’ He expelled a breath. There was something incredibly soothing about the way she tended him, her fingers gentle and unrushed. He closed his eyes as he felt the now familiar hardening in his groin.
He did not want to want her.
He shouldn’t want her.
But dear God he did.
‘The bleeding’s stopped,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll put a clean bandage on it but I think you should get the doctor to check it out, just in case.’
He didn’t want to hear the concern lacing her voice.
Her eyes creased in concentration as she carefully placed the bandage over the wound but there was now something less assured about her movements, a faint tremor in her fingers, a shallowness to her breathing. He recognised the sound. Its familiarity was akin to pouring petrol on a flame.
His hands clenched into fists but this time it was not anger he was fighting. It was desire, the desire to run his fingers through that short crop, to trace her cheekbones and the softness of her skin.
Grace cleared her throat. When she spoke her voice was husky. ‘All done. Let’s take a look at your knuckles.’
She lifted her eyes to meet his and for an instant he was thrown back in time to a place where nothing had existed for them but each other. There was the light sprinkling of freckles across her long nose, the same freckles he had been determined to count every last one of, the small beauty spot on her left cheekbone and the tiny childhood scar above her top lip that was the result of an accident with barbed wire. A thousand memories filled him and the desire to press his lips to hers and capture a taste of that remembered honey sweetness came on the verge of consuming him.
Only the ring of his phone saved him.
Those memories were from a different life when he had been a different man and Grace had been a different woman.
Now she was poison.
Shoving his chair back, he got to his feet and dug his stinging hand into his pocket. ‘Ciao.’
He sighed as he listened to his PA explain about a production problem in the bottling factory.
‘I need to go,’ he said once he had ended the call. ‘We will finish this conversation another time.’
Grace opened her mouth then closed it. Then opened it again. He braced himself for the anticipated insult she was certain to throw at him. The only thing she threw at him was another antiseptic wipe.
‘For your knuckles,’ she explained tightly. ‘And make sure you see your doctor about the wound.’
For the briefest of moments he caught the desolation in her eyes before she straightened and turned her back on him.
Outside in the fresh air he took a moment to compose himself.
If his phone hadn’t rung he would have kissed her. And one kiss would never have been enough. He would have wanted all of her.
Swearing under his breath, he strode back to the monastery.
He would not be a slave to his libido. He would master it until he found a mistress who would serve as an outlet for it.
Yet no matter how hard he tried to envisage this mythical woman, the only image that came to his mind was that of his wife.
CHAPTER SIX
GRACE STEPPED INTO the master bedroom with a real sense of trepidation. It was the first time she had been inside it since the day of her return. There was no denying this room was now very much Luca’s territory.
Puffing air through her bottom lip, she walked straight to the door that housed her old dressing room and flung it open.
That sense of walking into the past hit her again. The rows of clothing were exactly as she had left them. All that wonderful colour.
She hadn’t bought anything colourful since she left Sicily. Part of that had been because she had known his goons would be searching for a woman who wore vivid colours. The main part had been because the lightness in her heart had darkened and she had subconsciously bought clothes that had reflected that darkness. It had been the same darkness that had killed all her creativity.
Would the light ever return?
Had Luca been through her dressing room in her absence, looking for clues as to where she had gone? When he’d finally realised that she’d left him, had he been tempted to throw all her clothes onto a bonfire?
His mother had said he’d kept all her possessions in case she returned to collect them.
No matter how hard she tried to push the image out of her head, all she could see when she closed her eyes was the agony etched across his features when he described the effect her disappearance had had on him.
The raw emotion that had resonated from him had almost sliced her in two.
Surely he didn’t really need it spelled out why she had left? Who in their right mind would knowingly bring a child into such a dangerous world? It was different for him. Luca had been born and raised in it. To him, it was normal.
That had been made abundantly clear two days before she’d left.
* * *
She’d been in her cottage painting. For the first time ever, the smell of the turpentine she used to clean her brushes and thin her paints had made her queasy. Truth be told, she’d been feeling nauseous for a few days, had assumed she’d picked up a bug. Her usual boundless energy had deserted her too, so she’d decided to call it a day and get an early night.
She hadn’t even opened the door to their wing when she heard the shouting.
Luca and Pepe often rowed but this had been a real humdinger of an argument, vicious, their raised voices echoing off the walls of the corridor surrounding Luca’s office. A loud smash had made her jump back a foot.
For an age she had stared at the office door wondering whether she should go in and defuse whatever was going on between them or leave them to get on with it. There was always the risk she could walk in to them throwing stuff at each other and inadvertently get caught in the firing line.
Before she could make up her mind, the door had flown open and Pepe had stormed out, almost careering into her.
He’d stopped short. ‘Sorry. I didn’t know you were there.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she’d said. ‘Is everything okay?’
A stupid question. Even if she hadn’t heard them argue, one look at the thunder on her brother-in-law’s face would have answered it.
‘Ask your husband,’ he had replied curtly.
When he had left their wing, he had slammed the door hard enough for he
r to feel sorry for its hinges.
She’d entered Luca’s office and found him pacing in front of the window, a glass of Scotch in his hand. A large trail of coffee stained one of the white walls, a smashed cup on the carpet below it.
‘What’s the matter?’ she’d asked. ‘Who’s been throwing inanimate objects at the wall?’
He’d spun around to face her, his features contorted in the same thunderous expression as Pepe’s.
‘I thought you were in your studio,’ he’d snapped.
Unused to having that tone of voice directed at her, she’d flinched.
‘I’m sorry,’ he’d muttered, shaking his head. ‘It’s been one of those days.’
‘I heard you arguing with Pepe. What was that about?’
‘Nothing important.’
‘It must have been important that way you two were shouting at each other. And smashing things.’ Deliberately, she had kept her tone even, hoping it would be enough to defuse his rage and calm him down enough to talk to her.
‘I said it was nothing important.’ He had downed his Scotch then pulled his jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged his arms into it.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out.’
‘Out where?’
‘I have business to attend to.’
‘It’s nearly ten o’clock.’
‘My business does not conform to office hours.’
‘So I’ve noticed.’
His gaze had snapped to her. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Your long hours used to be here, on the estate, with me. Since you went into partnership with Francesco, I hardly see you, not properly.’
‘I’m part owner of two casinos and a handful of nightclubs,’ he’d said, speaking through gritted teeth. ‘They are nocturnal businesses and need hands-on management.’
‘I am well aware of that.’
‘Then what are you complaining about?’
‘I’m not complaining.’ Then her voice had shaken. There had been something so...feral about him at that moment, a wildness that wasn’t just due to his unshaven, dishevelled appearance. Luca was usually so perfectly groomed. ‘I’m worried about you. You’re working too hard. It’s not good for you...’
‘I shall be the judge of what’s good for me,’ he had interrupted with a snap. ‘You work long hours yourself.’
‘And when I’m tired I stop, as I have this evening. You’re working yourself into the ground and you’re drinking too much. You’ve been stressed for weeks. Months. Look how you were with me at the casino last night...’
‘I’ve apologised for that.’
‘I know, but I still don’t know what was going on...’
‘Nothing was going on and I would thank you to stop harping on about it!’ His voice had risen to a shout. Before she’d had time to blink, he’d swept all the contents of his desk onto the floor where they landed with a clatter.
She had stared at him with wide eyes. Her heart had hammered beneath her ribs. ‘What is wrong with you?’
‘How many times do I have to tell you to stop interfering?’ he’d shouted. ‘My business dealings are none of your affair.’
‘Of course they are—we’re married.’ She’d always known Luca had a temper on him but it had never been directed at her before; not like this. But she would not back down. Not this time. ‘I’m your wife, not a child. You used to talk to me about everything but now you won’t confide in me at all, not about anything, not the business, not your argument with your brother, not anything.’
He’d thrown his arms in the air. ‘I don’t have time for this, bella. I need to go.’
‘Why?’ She had backed against the door to block his exit.
‘I’ve already told you. I have work to do.’
She had folded her arms across her chest and said the words she’d longed to say for months. ‘No. I want you to stay at home tonight and talk to me. I want you to tell me what the hell’s going on in your life that is turning you into a stranger.’
His face a mask of fury, he had stood before her. ‘I am not answerable to you, or Pepe, or anyone. I am your husband and my word alone should be good enough to satisfy any curiosity you may have. Now move aside.’
‘Or what? You’ll manhandle me out of the way?’
He’d raised his eyes to the ceiling and muttered an oath that even Grace with her limited Italian had understood.
Anyone in their right mind would have got out of his way immediately, but no matter how hard her heart had hammered, no matter how frightened she had been, she hadn’t been frightened of him. No, something else had scared her and however hard she had tried to swat it away, it had loomed closer than ever.
When he’d looked back down at her, his features had regained some form of composure. ‘Please, Grace,’ he’d said, his voice surprisingly tender. ‘You are reading too much into this. All brothers argue. The casinos and nightclubs need hands-on running, that is all.’ He had stroked a finger down her cheek. ‘How about I promise to stay out no more than a couple of hours? When I get home we’ll share a bottle of wine and I’ll give you a massage. How does that sound?’
Despite herself, despite knowing she shouldn’t just capitulate, she’d nodded and sighed, pressing her forehead against his chest. Luca’s heart had been hammering as wildly as her own.
‘I worry I don’t know you any more,’ she’d confessed. ‘You’re hardly ever home and when you are, you’re distant with me. And you’re drinking too much—it scares me.’
Wrapping his strong arms tightly around her, he’d buried his face in her hair. ‘You have nothing to worry about, amore. I swear. You know I love you. That will never change.’
Tears had pricked her eyes, fear gripping her stronger than ever. ‘I love you too.’
When he had returned that night, there had been no shared bottle of wine and no massage. Even though her head had ached and her heart had been heavy, she had fallen asleep on the sofa. He’d carried her to their bedroom and helped her undress, then let her sleep, locked in his arms.
In the morning, she had awoken and immediately sat upright, as if she’d been hit by a lightning bolt. He’d already left for work, leaving a sweet note on his pillow for her. He hadn’t been there for her to tell of the vivid dream that had awoken her so abruptly. The dream had brought into sharp focus something that had been hovering in the back of her mind for days, like a wispy cloud that refused to be caught.
She’d dreamt she was pregnant.
* * *
‘Is there a problem?’
Grace jumped. She’d been so lost in the past, the carpet so thick, she hadn’t heard Luca’s approach.
She pressed a hand to her chest and managed the faintest of smiles. ‘Lily’s napping, so I thought I should see if I had anything suitable to wear for the party on Saturday.’
‘I’ll get a member of staff to move everything to the blue room,’ he said, looking past her. ‘But I doubt there is anything suitable to wear in there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In the past I was happy to indulge your preference for bright colours but not any more. The party we’re attending is a high-society affair and you will dress appropriately.’
‘You always liked that I dressed differently. Unless you were lying to me.’
‘That was then,’ he said coldly. ‘I was far too indulgent. I have already stated my desire for a traditional Sicilian wife. In future you shall wear clothes I deem appropriate in public.’
‘And what does a Sicilian husband deem appropriate wifely apparel for a party with the cream of Florentine society?’
‘Something demure, elegant and sedate. And not just in her dress but in her manners too.’ He stared at her pointedly.
‘You really are full of it,’ she said scornfully. ‘I would kill to see a man try and tell your mother what to wear and how to behave.’
‘My father would never have told her how to behave because he loved her for who she was. The simple difference is, I do not love you. Your wants and needs mean nothing to me. When you accompany me as my wife you will wear what I tell you and behave as I tell you or you can pack your bags and leave.’
He meant every word. She could feel it.
If she called his bluff and packed, he would arrange a driver to take her to the edge of the estate. Once at the border, that would be it. She would never be allowed back in.
‘In that case, I shall go shopping for the drabbest dress in the world.’ She plastered the biggest, fakest smile she could muster to her face. ‘I’ll do my best to buy a dress that is the epitome of elegance.’
‘Rather than rely on your definition of elegance, I will accompany you.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’ll clear my schedule for the next few hours. We can leave now.’
* * *
The dress on the mannequin had thin straps and a tight buttercup-yellow bodice that narrowed in a V at the waist. Its skirt fell to the knees at the front, the back flaring down to the ankles like a peacock tail, a riot of reds, yellows and oranges. It was so beautifully designed and cut, so fantastically offbeat that Grace couldn’t help but stare wistfully at it.
Luca appeared by her side with a fawning shop assistant. ‘I have selected the dresses I wish you to try,’ he said in the offhand manner he had adopted since they’d arrived at the exclusive shopping arcade.
Leaving Lily with him, she followed another assistant into the plush changing room.
He’d selected four dresses. Like the others she had already paraded herself in, they were all in varying shades of beige. If there was one colour she loathed, it was beige. She remembered on one of their previous, happier shopping trips she had regaled him for a good twenty minutes about why beige was so nondescript it didn’t deserve to be called a colour. Even in her darkest days she would never have contemplated wearing it.
In their marriage’s first incarnation, he had made her feel like a princess whenever they went shopping together, never caring if her preferences were a little offbeat, his only wish for her to feel confident and happy in whatever she chose. This time he dismissed each of her humiliating parades in front of him with a dismissive sweep of his eyes, his attention taken with the fawning shop assistant, who at one point he permitted to hold Lily.
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